


An Unexpected Twist

by Tamuril2



Category: Hobbit (Jackson Movies), hobbit - Fandom
Genre: AU, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-16
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-14 09:05:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5737753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tamuril2/pseuds/Tamuril2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world has asked much of Thorin Oakenshield. His home, his father, his riches, even his people. He's wondered for two years with only 12 dwarves at his side. And now the Valar ask him to do this? No. Never. This betrayer deserves all that's been wrought upon him and nothing will make Thorin change his mind. No slash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Enemy

**~~~~~**

“Not forgiving is like drinking rat poison and then waiting for the rat to die.”

― Anne Lamott

**~~~~**

They would’ve missed the orcs encampment if Kili hadn’t stumbled over a rock and fallen down the bluff’s edge, breaking through the carefully placed foliage of branches at the bottom. As it was, Kili did trip and they did find the orcs. The skirmish that ensued was both swift and merciless. None of the dark creatures escaped their justice, not even the Uruk’hai that led them. Their swords dripped wet with the blood of their enemy by the end and Thorin’s heart sang at the sight of the destruction they’d wrought.

Three years they’d been roaming these lands, outcast by the dragon, Smaug, when he attacked their home in the Lonely Mountain. One by one, former allies had turned their heads and blocked their ears to the dwarves’ pleas for aid. With no gold or numbers to back them, the dwarves lost the support so willingly given them all those years ago. Thorin ground his teeth at the thought. He needed no weak humans or elves to help him regain his honor and home.

“Thorin!” From across the sylvan glade, Balin gestured for him to come. The old adviser stood next to the jagged entrance of a small cave. Littered about him were the corpses of orcs and goblins, yet Balin held his axe with a steady hand. Thorin smiled at the sight. Age could not withhold the strength of those arms.

He strode swiftly over and grabbed his comrade’s shoulder firmly. “What found you, my friend?”

At this, the grey beard dwarf’s bushy eyebrows furrowing together and he indicated towards the cave entrance before them. “They were guarding this.”

Thorin stiffened and peered into the inky blackness within. “Orcs do not guard something lightly.”

“Indeed.”

“Think you a weapon of some sort in here?”

“I cannot say for certain, but even if it be only a sword of iron I would not leave it here.” Balin shuddered and Thorin could not fault him for it.

The orcs they faced were better trained than their foul cousins in the north. They were still not a challenge for a dwarf, of course. Yet they were also enough of an annoyance to signal a change in the beasts. Someone had been training these things. Perhaps the Uruk’hai that lay beheaded on the grass. Perhaps a greater evil.

“What say you?” Balin asked.

Thorin straightened his back and rolled his shoulders, loosening the tension that’d built up within them. “We cannot leave without first ascertaining what lies within these nadirs.”

“Very well.” Balin hefted his mace up and turned to the others. “Dwalin, Gloin, you’re with us. The rest of you pile those bodies up and burn them, else we’ll be having wolves for companions tonight.”

Thorin didn’t stay to see if they obeyed the order. He’d chosen Balin as his second in command for a reason. To remain would only signal his reluctance in trusting the elder dwarf. They could ill afford that and for this reason, and this alone, Thorin marched into the cave without a backward glance.

Inside was damp and smelled heavily of days old gore and sweat. Thorin gripped his long-hefted battle axe and moved deeper in. In the dim light, he could just make out the outlines of a table to the right. A small tapping echoed and Thorin whirled to face the new danger. Suddenly, bright light flared in his eyes. He glared at Gloin, then at the fire flickering on torch the dwarf clasped.

“I’ll not be caught off guard.” Gloin said, his gaze steady. “Orcs and goblins can see in the dark, we cannot. And this cave’s not deep enough for them to ambush us properly. We have the advantage now.”

In the newly acquired light, Thorin got a better view of the horrors this cave possessed. Numerous instruments of torture littered the floor and hung from hooks on the walls, evidence that the orcs had been here for a while. Thorin repressed a shiver. The wicked looking tools were wiped clean. Blood splattered the stone about them, but the instruments themselves were spotless and sharp. Someone had gone to great lengths to make sure these things would last a long, long time.

Hs imagination didn’t need to go far to guess why. To be held for any length of time by these foil creatures was a fate that would haunt even the strongest of dwarf’s dreams. For the orcs delighted in playing with their meals before eating them. Few survived long enough to be rescued from their clutches. And those that did were but mere shadows of their former selves. Thorin feared what they might find inside this cave’s depths.

Then something else caught his attention as well and chilled his soul. In the far corner to the left, a long slab of smooth stone shone with bright red. “That blood is new.”

“Not even a day old,” Balin breathed, pity in his aged eyes.

Dwalin pushed past them and marched around the corner, his two axes ready at his side. “Wait here.”

Not a minute passed before the dwarf appeared again. “You better come, Balin. This one’s bad.”

The old dwarf rushed by, dragging Gloin with him, and Thorin surged forward to follow them, but Dwalin flung out an arm. Thorin raised an eyebrow at the impertinent action. While it was true that he encouraged his kin to dispense of his royal title, one could never be sure where enemies might overhear, even they remembered the respect owed him. He might be king under the mountain in name only, but he was still king.

“Dwalin.” His words were both a question and a reprimand.

“It’s Thranduil.”

And just like that, Thorin’s world stopped. Thranduil. A thousand things sprang forth. Why was the elvish king here? How? Where were his kin? The elves, as a whole, seemed to be faithful when it came to their own. How long had Thranduil been here? This glade was far from his darkened forests and his kin would not have let him go easily.

Yet, why should he care about one such as Thranduil? Thorin’s hands curled into tight fists. The elf had abandoned them in their hour of need. He’d sat on his white elk with his pristine soldiers and watched as Smaug breathed death upon them, as if he had the right to pass judgment on them from his lofty throne.

“Let me pass,” he commanded.

Dwalin seemed to consider something and then stepped back with a differential bow of his head. “My King.”

Girding himself with his anger, Thorin rounded the corner and found Balin reaching up to unchain the elf’s wrist from thick shackles while Gloin held the elf around the waist gingerly. Thorin’s fury rose to new heights. “Hold.”

Balin paused, his fingers just touching the first shackle. His face slackened and his old eyes offered apprehension. “Thorin, we cannot leave him to–”

“I said, hold,” Thorin stressed.

“Thorin, at least let me –” Balin tried, but Thorin would have none of it.

This was another enemy, not some ally to be coddled. Thorin drew himself up and hardened his mind against Balin’s pleading gaze. “Remember your place!”

He motioned the two back with a swift jerk of his hand and after a moment they complied. The iron chains rattled against each other and without Gloin to hold him up, Thranduil’s wrists once again slipped deep into his shackles. A soft moan escaped those chapped lips as gravity pulled and the elf’s bowed head stirred up a little, though his eyes remained shut in unconsciousness. Thorin moved closer to study the elf before him.

Stripped to the waist, Thranduil hung by his wrists, the chains attached above his head to a ring welded to the cave’s roof. Multiple dried rivulets of dark blood ran down his pale arms, evidence that he’d struggled against the binds that held him. Some of the bloody streaks appeared to be weeks old while new ones trickled down, no doubt agitated by Gloin moving him. Different shades of bruising peppered Thranduil’s face, the left side of his cheek nothing but a ruin of burnt flesh hanging by strings of twisted skin. His nose seemed to be broken in three places.

His once golden hair was sullied with blood and dirt, cut short to just below his pointed ears. Deep gashes crisscrossed his chest so many times that Thorin could not discern any unmarred skin in sight, though the blood could be hiding it. His breeches resembled rags more than anything else and the tips of his bare feet brushed the dirt floor. The finishing touches of the sight were the prominent bones sticking out, making Thranduil resemble a living corpse.

They’d starved him.

Thorin took a strangled breath in and Balin stepped closer, laying a hand on Thorin’s axe and it was then that Thorin noticed he’d raised it in a threatening manner against the wounded elf. How telling that even his subconscious mind knew who the enemy was in this room and urged his hand to destroy it.

Balin firmly pushed the axe down. “We cannot leave him here.”

Thorin bristled. “He left us to the dragon.”

“And would you stooped to such petty things as revenge against a wounded man?” Balin waved a hand, gesturing to the overall carnage that was Thranduil. “Are we to be no better than these orcs? No better than the humans of Lake Town? No, I say let us rise above, be better than they who spurned us.”

“You would have me aid him, knowing he would not do so in return?”

“Aye,” Balin said, shoulders back and head held high. “I would.”

It chaffed at Thorin, rubbed raw the still open wounds the elf king’s betrayal had inflicted on him. He’d trusted their elven allies and they’d left them to die alone as the ash from their home drifted on the wind. And now Balin asked him to just throw aside that treachery and treat the elf king as one of their own. No, he would not. He could not.

“I will not help someone who deserves nothing less than what he received,” Thorin said.

Balin surged forward, grabbing his shoulder. “Thorin, please, reconsider. He’s no threat to us like this. I cannot…I will not…do not ask me to leave him like this, Thorin.”

Thorin jerked his shoulder out of Balin’s grip and turned away. The ache for his home in the mountains, the hurt of their wonderings washed over him and he nearly ordered Balin to abandon the elf to his slow death. And then he made the mistake of glancing towards Thranduil. Such a wretched picture of woe the elf painted for him, handing there with the last strands of his life. He stared at Balin’s pleading eyes and stifled a growl. “I will not come between those who think otherwise. Do as you see fit.”

Balin gave a nod of thanks. “Dwalin, I shall have need of your strength as well.”

The veteran slid his axes smoothly into their sheaths on his back. Thorin didn’t stay to watch. If Balin wished to fix this, so be it, but he had better things to do. He stormed out the tunnel and into the sunlit glade. His nephew, Fili, stood by the entrance and startled as Thorin emerged.

“U-Uncle!” Fili drew himself together. “Bad news, I take it.”

Thorin growled, too furious at Balin to even voice his displeasure. The others noticed his return and ventured near, worry mixed with curiosity darting across their faces. Thorin knew that anger would join as soon as they found out the cave’s inhabitant and Balin’s intent.

"Prisoners?" Fili persisted.

"Yes."

Fili paled. “Are they dead?”

Oh, how Thorin wished. “No.”

“Then, why –”

Thorin threw his axe down, its thick blade burying itself deep into the soft earth. “It seems we’re adopting an elf.”


	2. Broken Pieces

     ~~~~

The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown.

H.P. Lovecraft

      ~~~~

Hot tongs seared into his flesh, tearing away the last remnants of his endurance. Thranduil cried out, unable to keep from speaking his pain. Harsh laughter invaded his ears and he trembled as rough fingers grabbed hold of his hair. His head was wrenched up and back, forcing him to look into the glee filled eyes of his tormentors. The heated tongs were abruptly pulled away, but not before the Uruk’hai pushed them into his side a little more.

An orc, the brut with a blind eye, held his head up, while their leader, a tall Uruk’hai with bone piercings in his left ear, stood in front of him. The Uruk’hai shouted a few sharp, twisted words to his companion and the orc’s face broke into a grin, distorting his grotesque features even more. Thranduil couldn’t understand the Black Speech, but he knew it held no good for him. It never did. He choked back a sob when the Uruk’hai walked to the corner of the room and brought out a small flask.

No, not again. Not now. He couldn’t take the effects of their vile concoction so soon. They’d only just stopped his beating. He didn’t have any strength left to combat the black Mordor brew.

“No,” he whispered as the orc forced his mouth open. The Uruk’hai laughed at his quiet plea and Thranduil rebuked himself for showing them any weakness. Fool, he knew better than to give them an advantage. Icy liquid poured into his mouth and ran over his lips. He tried to resist swallowing it, but the orc noticed, released his jaw, and struck a blow to his broken ribs. He screamed, spitting out the liquid in his mouth. He reflexively drew in a breath, but, instead of air, he swallowed the Mordor brew, choked on it.

Twice more they forced him to consume their burning drink. He vomited some of it back up, but enough of it stayed in him to knot his stomach and cause his body to shiver. The Uruk’hai laughed as the orc yanked on Thranduil’s hair, exacerbating the new pain. Each tug sent fire through his veins and blackened his vision. Eventually, the Uruk’hai grunted something to his underling and the orc stopped.

“Lag-o-lahs.” The Uruk’hai barked.

And then Thranduil’s son was before him, his blue eyes sad and angered, his once fine clothes nothing but frayed shreds. “You let them have me. Just like mother.”

“No, ion nin,” he said, desperate to make his son understand. How could Legolas believe such lies? He loved his son more than Mirkwood herself. He’d tried everything in his power to save him. “I didn’t…couldn’t…he was…”

“But you did, Ada.” Legolas smiled at him, his flawless face a black serene. “So, I shall let them have you.”

“No, please…ion nin…please…”

“Thranduil,” a voice like falling rocks said to his left. It scraped against his ears and aggravated the ache in his head.

He ignored it in favor of his son. “I’m sorry, so sorry.”

Legolas shook his head, thick blood running down the side of his golden hair. His cheeks turned hollower and his body thinner. One of his eyes disappeared, leaving not but a black hole. “Apologies won’t help you, Ada. Only Sauron can.”

“No! I won’t!” Thranduil struggled against the chains that bound him. They’d turned his son, made him an emissary to the Dark Lord. It was a blow that struck deep into Thranduil’s heart. His pure little son lived no more. The Uruk’hai laughed and waved his dying son out the cave. It turned to him and readied a braided whip. The orc lifted his head high again. Legolas winced, but didn’t stop them as he stumbled out.

“Ion nin!”

“Thranduil!” the mysterious voice called, louder now. It distracted him for a moment and he looked for its owner. He found no one, only the blood splattered wall of the cave. A tear fell down his torn cheek. Alone, he was alone, with no one for company but the Uruk’hai and his condemning son.

The Uruk’hai neared, the whip held back to strike him. Suddenly he started to jolt back and forth. It felt as if invisible hands had grabbed his arms and were shaking him, hard. He struggled against the unknown force and the Uruk’hai laughed once more. He closed his eyes against the image and found an old dwarf inches from his face. The wrinkled face seemed familiar somehow, but he didn’t linger on that fact. If the dwarf was here, then he obviously held company with the orcs and meant to do him harm.

“No!” he exclaimed. A sharp pain raced through him and he gasped, body instinctively curling inward to protect the vulnerable bones in his chest. Calloused fingers gripped his arm, holding him in place, and fear enveloped him. Was the naugrim planning on breaking more of his ribs? Calling upon his last reserves, Thranduil wrenched his arm toward himself, attempting to shake his captured limb free. He promptly blacked out. When his sight came back he found his head ringing.

Had someone had struck him from behind?

He glanced back. Another dwarf, dark haired with axes on his back, hovered inches from his face. Thranduil tried to push himself away, but he ceased with a cry as his broken ribs grated against each other and closed his eyes, gasping from the agony. Every cut, burn, and broken bone sang out, a throbbing harmony that could not be ignored. Breathe short and body raw, he prepared himself to fight a losing battle. Why he was outside or why the orcs or Uruk’hai hadn’t yet showed their faces, he knew not, but whatever evil the naugrim had planned, Thranduil would not let them achieve it so easily. He’d make them toil for every inch given.

The first dwarf shuffled into his line of sight. Thranduil hadn’t noticed his lack of presence til now, even the grip on his arm was gone. The naugrim strangely motioned the second dwarf away. “Enough, Dwalin.”

The gruff naugrim, Dwalin, scowled, but obeyed the command. Thranduil frowned. Why hadn’t the dwarf ordered his companion to punish him for his resistance? The orcs always hastened to flog him when he struggled against their wishes. They delighted in their hold over him.

Then it became clear.

The naugrim wished to enact punishment himself as the Uruk’hai was prone to do. Thranduil attempted to put himself into a sitting position. He did not wish to lie as a worm on the ground before them. But his arms quivered and he knew it to be a hopeless cause. He’d do more injury to himself by continuing. He swallowed his anger at the helplessness of his state and waited on the forest floor. Nearby a fire crackled and all Thranduil could think was that any moment those burning logs could be used against him. He’d nothing to protect him from the fire, his strength diminished, his chest bare, his legs…covered in a blanket? Indeed, overtop his torn leggings, a woolen blanket lay pooled.

The dwarf took a few steps forward and stopped. “Are you awake, elf?”

Thranduil jerked his gaze from the thin coverlet, cringing at the word ‘elf’. The orcs enjoyed using it as an excuse to hurt him. ‘Feel yourself pretty now, elf?’ they jeered. ‘Think you’re special, elf?’ What greater ire would a dwarf have for his kind? There was no love lost between their races, no tendril of hope.

He nodded in answer to the naugrim’s question though, fearing greater pain should he not respond in some way. The Uruk’hai had shown him at the beginning what his silence brought. Either by not expressing his pain or refusing to answer questions, his lack of speech garnered things that made his daily beatings feel like mere taps. The dwarf’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t tell the other to strike him, so Thranduil assumed he’d done right.

It galled him that he should cower so before a dwarf, that he should be so submissive, but the recent years of torture had stripped away all thought of defiance. When his scathing words brought their whips and knives, he’d learned to hide his thoughts. When his silence created anger and harsher beatings, he’d realized the worth of his screams, even at the cost of his self-respect. His body knew the consequences and he couldn’t stop himself from panicking each time he woke.

Every day brought only more sorrow and horror. The only change was the level of brutality. Thranduil often prayed for death now. He knew relief would come when he breathed no more in this world. Bit by slow bit, his spirit drained of the will to live and he faded a little more, but not quickly enough.

Why, couldn’t he die?

Perhaps, the Valar were punishing him for his refusal to help the dwarves when Smaug attacked. He regretted that decision. Even before his kingdom fell to the spiders and orcs and he himself was captured, Thranduil had wished he’d chosen another course. Arrogance had held his aid back and that same arrogance had caused his son die.

_Adaaaa!_

His son’s last words would forever resonate within him, as would the consequences his reluctance had brought upon the dwarves. Their home taken by Smaug, their race scattered, and their hopes dashed.

Perhaps that was why the dwarves were here.

They desired to lay their own version of justice upon him for his misdeeds against their people. He flinched as the gray-haired dwarf reached out to him and closed his eyes, not willing to look upon the face of his attacker, but the expected blow never landed. He waited and still no hand was laid upon him. He opened his eyes cautiously and glanced up. The dwarf stared down at him with pity in his features.

That brought anger up into his chest, but Thranduil didn’t dare let his displeasure show. He couldn’t be sure they weren’t use it against him. Mock him in his vulnerable state for such a futile emotion. Still he allowed it to linger deep inside his heart, nestled there to smolder. He waited, letting the naugrim dictate the next move.

“You are freed, Thranduil King. The orcs are dead.”

Such surety lived in the dwarf’s voice that Thranduil could only believe him. Yet he still knew that meant nothing about their treatment of him. Just because they killed Sauron’s vile creations didn’t mean they wished to spare him.

The dwarf tilted his head to the side. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

He did, though not enough. He knew that he’d seen the face before, but couldn’t place where. It shamed him that he’d lost so much of himself to the Uruk’hai and orcs. He’d prided himself on his memory, how he could recall even the smallest of details without even trying. Now he was lucky he remembered his name and his people’s fate – though that was more due to the fact the Uruk’hai taunted him for Green Woods fall and his useless title at every turn.

Thranduil shuddered. He doubted he would ever forget the screams of his people as they were butchered. The cries of despair and terror haunted his dreams and darkened his days, his people’s eyes forever closed in the sleep of death. The streets had run crimson with their blood.

“Elf?” the dwarf asked, brow creased into a frown.

“I know your face.” His voice scratched the back of his throat and he winced before he could stop himself.

The dwarf studied him more and then waved his friend, Dwalin, closer. The burly naugrim grasped Thranduil around his shoulder with light hands – Thranduil flinched regardless – and forced him into a sitting position. Why, Thranduil couldn’t be sure. Perhaps they would beat him now. But then Dwalin stepped back to his former position and the elder dwarf withdrew a water sack from his belt and offered it to him.

No words of encouragement or thanks passed between them. The naugrim expected his compliance and Thranduil refused to be grateful when it might give leverage to his captors. He sipped the water tentatively, fearing poison. When no toxin burned his lips, Thranduil gulped down more. He cared not that it might look desperate to the naugrim watching him.

Who knew when they would grace him with more? He needed to drink as much as possible without hurting his stomach. Too much and he’d bring it back up again. After another gulp, the dwarf, Dwalin, shifted his weight and Thranduil understood the quiet signal. Enough drink. He gave the water sack back without hesitance.

The elder naugrim frowned as the mostly full sack, but hooked it back on his belt. “So, you remember my face, but do you recall my name?”

Thranduil wilted. He did not. The title taunted him, brushing against the edges of his memories, but refused to be caught. Had the naugrim been one of those who begged for help? Had he been high in Thrain’s court? He could not say for certain and worried what that dearth of knowledge might cause.

Would they take insult at his lack of awareness, taking it for a subtle slight?

Yet Thranduil knew they required no excuse to harm him. He’d abandoned them at their greatest hour of need. In the eyes of the world, anything would be considered just recompense to one such as he, even his continued torment. They could beat him, humiliate him, shatter him, and still the sin against their kind would not be paid in full. Thranduil knew this.

Had he not done similar, if abet less harsh, deeds to those he deemed intruders on his land or not humbled enough? Now, the Valar demanded reparation for his misdeeds. Thranduil hated them for that, yet knew he deserved no less. But still, in the deepest recesses of his heart, he longed for someone to forgive him his misdeeds. If not forgiveness, than at least that they didn’t hold it against him.

“Thranduil!”

He started at the abrupt call and eyed the dwarf. The naugrim shook his head with…relief? That emotion was wrong. Why would his enemy care for him? No, that didn’t fit at all. It had to be something else. Perhaps…yes, that must be it! He’d not been listening and the dwarf wanted his full attention when he passed judgment.

He braced himself for the pronouncement, but a rustle in the bushes interrupted them.

And then Thranduil’s worst fear turned into reality. Thorin Oakenshield – beard scraggled and clothes worn, but still radiating of his birthright – stepped out from the shadows. Nine dwarves followed behind him. The young dwarf king was rigid with barely suppressed anger and his full scrutiny landed solely on Thranduil. “So, now you are awake.”

“Yes,” he rasped, eyes meeting his captor’s. His stomach clenched with dread and his heart beat fast within him. What was it to be? More floggings? The branding torch? Perhaps even less food. Thorin might, given his grievances, combine all three. Or bring forth something new. Thranduil’s breath hitched at the thought. Could he withstand such lengths?

Thranduil knew the answer before the question had finished crossing his mind.

No.

“Thorin,” the old dwarf said, a warning in his tone. He laid a hand on the other naugrim’s arm. “Don’t.”

The dwarf king threw a stinging glare at his companion. “It is my right, Balin.”

Balin opened his mouth, but then closed it, eyes sad, and backed away with a bow. Thorin stepped closer, the hilt of his sword glinting in the firelight, and something in Thranduil snapped. Some might say it was the last remnants of his pride, some his endurance. Whatever it was, it left the elven king’s soul stripped bare and hopeless, his body shaking with fatigue and pain. He bowed his head til it met the ground and curled his fingers around the dry leaves and dirt.

“Please,” he whispered. “No more.”

A stillness unlike any he’d ever felt descended upon the glade. It stifled the air, made it thick with tension. Someone scuffled the leaves as they walked to his side and weathered boots appear by his good eye. Thorin’s. Thranduil stiffened in anticipation, waiting for the nagrim’s rage to descend upon him. A heavy hand laid itself on his naked shoulder and Thranduil flinched.

“Please,” he sobbed, images of his last beating rising up to overwhelm him; the whip falling again and again upon his back no matter how much he screamed for them. He didn’t care that his pleas were most likely only an amusement to the once dwarf prince, now exiled king. He’d try anything to stay this new horror. His fingers tightened their grip on the leaves and dirt in them. “Please.”

Thorin sucked in a sharp breath and released his grip. “See to him.”            His boots disappeared quickly from Thranduil’s sight and Balin’s worried face crouched down to his level. Another pair of hands, gentle ones, lifted him up, pausing each time he hissed in pain to let him regain his breath. Thranduil focused on the ground, tears of shame, of terror, of broken memory falling down his cheeks. He had nothing left. Why did they not press their advantage? Why did they not strike him down?

He risked a glance up and saw Thorin retreat with most of the dwarves back to another camp fire. He’d been spared, for today. But why? He’d done nothing that he hadn’t tried with the orcs. Did Thorin think his groveling enough to put off his retribution? Would it come tomorrow, when he’d had more time to restore his body?

“Come, help me get him closer to the fire, Kili,” Balin said. Thranduil cringed, but the dwarves only moved him a few feet in and then settled him down on some bunched up cloaks. Lumpy and twisted, they felt like the softest bed to Thranduil. He relaxed into them with but a few winces. Balin stepped to his side once more, a steaming bowl in his hands.

“The broth’ll do you good,” Balin said, laying the warm pottery in his trembling hands. “I put some Athelas in it to dull the pain.”

Wary this good intent, but knowing he could not refuse the gift, Thranduil attempted to bring the liquid to his lips. Yet his hands shook so badly that most of it landed on his chest, the salt of it stinging his barely healed wounds. The other dwarf, Kili, swept in and took it from him softly. Thranduil’s heart tightened. He hadn’t meant to fail in his task.

“Here,” Kili said, lifting the bowl to Thranduil’s mouth.

The kindness of the action nearly overwhelmed Thranduil, but he managed to sip the fragrant broth. A mixture of rabbit and parsley filled his mouth. It soothed his throat as he swallowed and comforted his aching stomach. After a few more mouthfuls, Kili lowered the bowl. “Let’s see how well your stomach responds to that much.”

Thranduil considered him as he place the bowl near the fire coals. “Why?”

Why give him sustenance? Why help him? Why show mercy? Why not end his life with a quick swing of an ax or leave him for the wolves? Why do any of this and not what he deserved? So many unanswered questions and not a one of them rendering any sense.

“It’s right,” Kili said.

The honesty shining from the young naugrim’s eyes surprised Thranduil and he found he could not say anything in return. How could it be ‘right’ for them to tend one who had abandoned them? He’d left them to Smaug’s tender mercies and it seemed only fitting that he be subject to Thorin’s justice. Or at the very least to let nature take its course and leave him for the wolves that howled some few miles away. He shook his head in bewilderment.

The young dwarf shrugged, standing up and stretching his back. “I’m going back to uncle, Balin, send word if you have need of me.”

“Of course. My thanks, lad.” Balin said. They both watched him leave; Balin with love, Thranduil with confusion. The older dwarf plopped himself nearby and took out a pipe. Pulling out a small bag from his pocket, he started to stuff the pipe with weed. But then he paused in his solemn actions. He eyed the pipe a moment and turned to Thranduil. “Will this bother you?”

Would it bother him? Thranduil could only blink in response. Why would the naugrim care if the smoke troubled him? Why worry? Surely such a little thing need not be considered. Balin grunted and put the pipe and weed away in his pocket. Thranduil scrambled to put himself in the dwarf’s good graces.

“You can smoke it.”

Balin shook his head. “Bad habit, anyway.”

They sat there, staring at the glowing flames of the fire, each deep in their own thoughts. Gradually the pain of Thranduil’s ribs began to dim as the Athelas took affect and his eyes glazed over in sleep. He did not see Thorin come and stare at him with mixed feelings. He did not feel Balin cover him again with a woolen blanket. He did not hear Kili speak with Thorin. Nor did he notice Dwalin coming back over to guard him. No, Thranduil slept through that all, for once without dreams.


	3. Wavering Vengeance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going along my merry way when it occurred to me, what must our dwarf king have been feeling and thinking in that previous chapter? I simply couldn't leave it there. I wrote it out, and loved it. I hope you enjoy it as much. :D

**~~~~**

Vengeance is the act of turning anger in on yourself.

– Jane Goldman

**~~~~**

For two days Thorin had borne the insult of Balin tending to Thranduil. He had watched his loyal comrade fret and care for their enemy’s unconscious form until his stomach churned with anger and his heart burned to use his battleax. It sickened Thorin to see a dwarf worry so for an elf, _especially_ when that elf was Thranduil. When Kili started to drift over there more and more Thorin’s ire grew to new heights. Didn’t his nephew realize who it was Balin attended to so diligently? Did none of them remember the depravity this particular elf had laid on their kin?

“No! I won’t!”

Thorin scowled as yet again Thranduil’s shouts filled the evening air. Several times the elf had woken these past nights, delirious and screaming, but never more than a few scant minutes. His cries scraped against Thorin’s ears, kept him peaceful rest at night, even as something twinged in his heart.

“Ion nin!”

Thorin gripped the earthen bowl in his hands tighter. Why did Balin not do something? These constant nightmares were wearing his company thin. Dark circles coated under every dwarf’s eye. Another cry echoed through the forest, but this one rang different, more alert. Thorin glanced back and saw Dwalin hovering over the elf’s crumpled body. Balin inched closer and started murmuring to Thranduil in tones too low for Thorin to catch.

Thorin’s grip on the bowl increased and some of the hot soup spilled over onto his hands as he saw Balin give the elf some of his personal water. It had taken them weeks to find that clean river, hidden deep in a valley. The traitor didn’t deserve such consideration, such kindness, as a share of the find. Let him thirst. The elf deserved no less.

Thorin regretted dearly his earlier capitulation to Balin’s pleas. He should have left the elf to rot in that cave. He hissed and leapt to his feet. “Enough of this!”

Fili sprang in front of him, placing a hand on his chest. “Uncle.”

With those plaintive words Thorin’s last nerves splintered into a thousand shards. How dare Fili side with this traitor over him. Did his nephews not know the danger they played with? The elf would never thank them for this kindness. No, he would use it against them, twist it so that they appeared weak to others. Thorin bristled. They could ill afford such a threat.

“Step away,” he said.

Fili’s stance widened though. “Please, uncle, he –”

“You will unhand me,” Thorin snarled, “and remember to whom you swore your allegiance.”

Fili sucked in a sharp breath and let go as if Thorin had burned him. Perhaps, in a symbolic way, Thorin had. He had certainly questioned his honor. The younger dwarf stepped back, hand trembling, and his brother hastened to his side in support. Thorin shoved the pang of guilt that burst upon him into the deepest recesses of his mind. His nephews had to see that their actions were unbecoming to one of the royal line. They had a duty to lead their dwarvish people along the path of life, to show them what was right and true. Supporting one such as Thranduil could never be right.

“Thranduil!” Balin shouted.

Thorin whirled round at the sudden cry and strode quickly through the brush towards the old advisor’s fire. He had let this go on for far too long. The time had come for Thranduil’s reckoning. Justice would be served. Heavy breathing and twigs cracking indicated that the others followed in his footsteps. Good. They needed to see this done.

He entered Balin’s small campsite, his mind in agreement and his soul ready to speak to the traitor elf. He kept his anger close, nurtured it, and drew himself up. “So, now you are awake.”

“Yes,” Thranduil said, his voice barely above a murmur.

Thorin took a step closer, the words of heated accusation rushing to his lips, but Balin stepped between them and arrested his words with a hand on his arm.

“Thorin,” the old dwarf said. “Don’t.”

He wrenched his arm away and nearly stuck his friend, so hot did his anger burn. “It is my right.”

Balin seemed about to say more, but then a sadness crept into his eyes and he drew back with a bow. Thorin ordered his thoughts and turned to the elf before him.

He should have spoken then, laid bare Thranduil’s sins and pronounced judgment. And Thorin meant to, truly he did. Yet, when he saw the muted horror that stole across Thranduil’s ashen face a chill swept into Thorin’s heart and he drew up short. Never had one looked upon him as Thranduil did; with despair, with terror, with absolute grief, with nothing left but broken, shattered pieces of themselves. The livid bruises and freshly tended wounds upon the elf’s scared back only accentuated his pitiful state. The left side of his face was still a ruined mess of torn skin, his elven healing hindered in restoring the flawless features by the extensive harm done to the rest of his body.

Thorin laid a hand on the hilt of his sword to steady his mind and something in Thranduil’s eyes changed. A dark shadow passed over them and Thranduil curled in on himself, hands clawing into the soft forest floor. His head bowed until it reached the forest floor.

“Please,” Thranduil whispered. “No more.”

Thorin felt as if a troll had struck him from behind, so hard did the soft plea fall upon his ears. Thorin’s breath froze within him. Had he heard right? The mighty Thranduil, the elf who had looked upon his ravaged home and withheld his aid, had begged? No, not begged, that was too gentle a word for this. Thranduil groveled as one would expect a slave would do to his cruel master.

Was that what he was to the elf now?

Thorin moved until he was beside the elf’s eye and placed a hand on the trembling shoulder. Thranduil flinched and Thorin jerked his hand back.

“Please.” Thranduil sobbed. There lived no hope in that plea, no faith that his words would be heeded. Only despair and sorrow joined here, twisting in a perfect accord with other dark emotions until the fireside was taut with the stifling wait. Thorin felt the heavy gazes of his kin upon him, but found he could not meet them.

As one cannot stop watching a disaster as it falls upon you, so too could Thorin not look away from the shaking figure below him. His anger seeped from him even as he tried desperately to bring it back. What was he to do now? He could not strike one who was brought so low. It would make him no better than those orcs. He could also not forgive Thranduil his transgressions. They cried out for vengeance.

“Please,” Thranduil implored, his back arching more as he curled inward. Something broken breathed in that sound.

Thorin sucked in a breath, retreating a step. This was wrong. Never had he wished to see this elf thus cruelly stricken. His eyes found Balin’s and he waved the old dwarf over. “See to him.”

Balin needed no encouragement, he never had, and hurried to take Thorin’s place beside Thranduil. Thorin did not stay to watch. He spun round and strode back to his own campsite, a thousand and one thoughts crowding his mind.

His rage diminished, what was he to do now? Continue assisting the elf, and he ran the risk of angering the other dwarves spread throughout the lands. They would not accept anything less than the full measure of the law. Thorin sank next to the crackling fire. He gazed into the dancing flames, ignoring the others as they too returned.

Had the retribution been dealt? For his reluctance to aid at Erebor, Thranduil deserved no less than a harsh reckoning. Yet had that not already happened? Albeit by orcish hands. Yet still the outcome was the same. Thranduil no longer stood proud and strong.

Thorin shivered. There was no resemblance to the arrogant elf on the hill in that broken soul. Almost no life, if truth be told. Thorin had heard tell of elves fading when captured by orcs and he wondered if Thranduil was completing his passage to Manwe. Would Thorin even need to worry what the other dwarves thought? Thranduil might be well be in his last days in this world.

Thorin rose and slowly made his way back to Balin’s fire. The older dwarf nodded to him and Thorin returned the gesture. He clasped his hands behind his back and studied the sleeping elf between them. Eyes vacant in sleep, Thranduil lay motionless on several cloaks, a woven blanket wrapped carefully about his wounded body. For once his face was peaceful, no doubt thanks to Balin’s herbs.  

“Uncle?” Kili said as he drew up beside him. “I would speak with you.”

“Would you?” Thorin glanced over at him. “I would think you much rather command. It seems as if all anyone does these days.”

Kili winced and fiddled with the hilt of his ax. For a long time, neither of them said anything. Thorin allowed the silence, heavy as it was, to linger. His nephew’s actions required a delicate balance of reprimand and acceptance. If Thorin agreed too readily, he encouraged others to countermand his rule. Yet if he disregarded all opposing thoughts, he risked blinding himself to the truth.

At last, Thorin spoke. “Speak your mind.”

“Thranduil is in need of his people’s healing.” Kili straightened. “We must take him to Rivendell.”

Thorin shook his head. “We cannot.”

“We must. They have ways to aid their kin that we do not. We doom Thranduil to a slow death if we leave him like this, uncle. Surely, Aule would not wish that.”

Thorin shot his nephew a glare. “Have a care of your words.”

“I know them to be right,” Kili said. He shook his head. “Did you spare him tonight in the hopes that he would suffer more?”

“No!”

Kili’s expression eased, as if he’d truly feared such a thing were possible in Thorin. “Then let us take him to Rivendell.”

“The way is shut to those of our kind.”

Kili turned his gaze to Thranduil. “You will not even try?”

Thorin suppressed a sigh of frustration. They could not just simply walk Rivendell’s forests, hoping the elves would withhold their arrows long enough for them to explain their predicament. And that was even supposing Thranduil lived long enough for them to make the half week journey. In his condition, moving the elf might ensure his death.

“Uncle?”

They had no supplies or knowledge to cure Thranduil. Balin’s herbs only dimmed the pain. At some point, those herbs would run out and then Thranduil would die in agony. This time, Thorin did sigh. As Kili said, only his kin had a hope of aiding the fading elf. “We will need a litter for him.”


	4. Over The Hill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update will in a month (to give myself breathing room).

~~~~~

People won’t have time for you if you’re always angry or complaining.

Stephen Hawking

~~~~~~

 

The frigid winds howled as if the ghosts of the dead walked among them. It ripped at their cloaks with invisible, greedy hands, wishing for their corpses. That Thorin knew that for certain. Many a traveler lay claimed beneath this frozen earth. The crag forever sought more bones to feed its grounds.

But not today.

No, today this barren wasteland of a mountain would not be sated. Thorin refused to yield a single member of his group to it. Yes, even the elf would be guarded against this fate. Honored demanded it, pride denied the very suggestion of failure. And yet… How much further could they go on?

Thorin hugged his cloak tight to his chest and bowed his head against the strong gales. The windstorms rebuffed his every movement, tried to tarry him a little long in this unmarked graveyard.  Every footfall felt like shards of glass stabbing his soles. Each breath struggled to return to him, and his eyes threatened to close into a warm sleep at every blink. The mountain fought hard against him, as Thorin knew it did against each other member of his group. He could not begin to imagine what those dragging the elf along in his litter must be feeling.

 _Nothing good comes of elves,_ his grandfather had said to him. And Thorin believe that with every fiber of his being. But to leave the elf now would be a disgrace to his blood and kin for generations to come. So, drag the elf they would. One dwarf walking beside to shake the fallen king awake, since the elf did not have sufficient strength to do so himself.

“Thorin!” the voice of Balin shouted from beside him, though with the howls the words were almost lost to the night.

Thorin glanced over at the stumbling dwarf, the hood of his cloak pushing into his cheek with rough scratches.

“They can go on no longer, Thorin! We must find shelter!” Balin risked pointing ahead of them, the winds nearly tearing his cloak off his shoulders and his hand struggled to remain pointing. “Dwalin has found a cave ahead!”

Thorin nodded as best he could. “Led on!”

In short order, but for what felt like ages, they arrived at the cave and stepped into its dark safety. Inside was small and musty, but compared to the howling den outside, it felt as if the warmest of abodes. Dwalin dipped his dark head low, gesturing to the open space around them.

“It is not much, my king, but it shall serve its purpose well.”

“Indeed it shall,” Thorin replied, laying a hand upon his companion’s shoulder. “You have saved us all this night, Dwalin. I will not forget that.”

Dwalin accepted the praise and recognition with the stern stoicism Thorin had come to expect from him. The dwarf dipped his head again and turned away to help Gloin go through their food pack. Kili groaned as he stretched backwards, hands on his hips. Fili smirked at his brother.

“T-tiring, little br-brother?” the elder of his nephews stuttered out, his teeth chattering from the cold.

Kili scowled as he rubbed his arms. “N-no.”

“Not ge-getting slow in your ol-old age, are you?”

“I thought I w-was the little brother, so do-does that make you ancient?

 “B-beauty has n-no age.”

Kili snorted and Thorin shook his head. His nephews were young, that much shown forth bright as day. Even on this perilous night, they sought to lighten each other’s soul with wit and banter. Ever was it so with them. Thorin could remember the day their father died, Kili and Fili had stayed up into the wee hours of the morn, laughing over tales of old.

And truly, Thorin did not mind. It brought a needed levity to the group that Thorin could not provide. No, the weight of his duty lay too thick upon his shoulders for him to laugh that freely. For on Thorin lay the obligation to find them all a home. A pang of sorrow wrenched through Thorin. How could he hope to find them a home to replace Erebor? Never would there be a greater glory than that of their ruined mountain.

 _And now all of it is lost to us._ Thorin could not shake the morbid thought once it entered his mind. For it was true. They’d lost so much and gained nothing…except for the elf. Thorin scowled. Curse the fates for playing with them like this. As if he and his company didn’t have enough troubles of their own, now the Valar placed one of their sworn enemy upon them.

Thorin stole a look across the cave towards the elf. Thranduil lay braced against a large rock, no doubt one that had been sacrificed by one of the company. Balin sat close, hunched down on his heels. His old friend seemed to be murmuring words of encouragement to the elf, though Thorin had no idea if those words reached the elf’s pointed ears. Thranduil’s face remained a blank slate, changing only when fear rose too great to hide.

And yet, it still rankled Thorin, helping Thranduil. Even more so because Thorin knew his honor would not let him leave the elf to fend for himself. It was because of this elf that they had to brave these crags and risk losing a member to the freezing elements. Had Thorin done as his instincts had bade him…well, Thorin mused, there was no point really in dwelling upon that now. He’d not gone that route and now he must live with the choice.

“Uncle?” Fili said, startling Thorin with his close proximity.

Thorin stifled his surprise though and faced his brother’s family with a stoic resolution. “Nephew.”

“I…” the boy faltered and glanced away.

Thorin’s brow furrowed at the lack of resolution. “Speak your mind, or else do not speak at all.”

That seemed to bolster Fili, for he nodded and straightened his shoulders. “We are days from reaching the other side, Uncle, and I fear Thranduil might not make the journey if we continue thus.”

Something ugly bubbled to life in Thorin. “And what would you have me do, nephew? We are already facing these perils for him.”

“I…I know, Uncle, but he has not the advantage we have, of walking to ward off the cold’s sleep. His body is not yet healed to that degree. And ever does his eyes close faster. I fear…I fear he might not make it.”

“It was you who asked this of us,” Thorin reminded. “You knew the elf might not make it to Imladris.”

“I know,” Fili said. “But…I had thought…that is…I think we should use the Athelas and silver.”

“What!” The outrage burst from Thorin before he could think to stop it.  Fili’s eyes widened, but Thorin couldn’t find it in himself to care. How could his nephew even think to waste what little silver liquid they had left on Thranduil? That silver was the last of Erebor’s legacy, other than the company themselves. After it, they had nothing left of their old home. And his nephew dared to…dared to…Thorin’s fists shook.

“No,” he barely hissed out through clenched teeth.

“But, Uncle, it could mean the difference between – ”

“I said no,” Thorin interrupted. “It is but a paltry attempt. One which has no guarantee of success. I will not squander our silver on – ”

He cut himself off before he could finish the sentence, but the damage was done. Fili’s wide eyes narrowed into slits. “So that’s it. You do not wish to use our resources on Thranduil. It is not the usage that angers you, but the patient.”

“You do not know – ”

“I know enough, Uncle,” Fili snapped out as he turned on his heel.

Thorin made to go after the boy, he dare not let such disrespect go free, but Balin stopped him with a hand on his arm. Thorin stiffened at yet another of his company turning on him. How could none of them see that this was all madness? How had he even allowed it to go this far? He made to rip his arm away from Balin, but the old dwarf shook his head and sent Thorin a sad smile. It gave Thorin pause.

“Thorin, peace.” Balin squeezed his arm. “Fili is young. He knows not the hurt his words will incur. I shall speak to him.”

“He wishes to use the silver,” Thorin growled. “On the elf.”

“I know.” Balin’s tone softened. “I advised him that it might not work, but you know the optimism of youth. Nothing is unattainable.”

“Foolishness.”

“I seem to recall a certain prince who was once as such. He thought nothing would bring down Erebor.” Balin tightened his grasp. “I pray your nephews will not have to learn as harsh a lesson as you. Already they see life slipping away from Thranduil. It scares them, Thorin. They were not even alive to see Erebor’s destruction. They’ve never lost someone before.”

Thorin’s throat closed. “And now they learn it from an elf.”

“Indeed.” Balin nodded. “And they struggle to see how to bear it. They know him to be an enemy of old, yet how can they lay more suffering on him? They wish to aid his recovery, but know not how. The innocence of youth is meeting the reality of age. It is a harsh lesson.”

A harsh lesson indeed, and one Thorin did not wish upon them. At least, not yet. He would have them enjoy their simplicity a while longer. Oh, he would not have them naïve, yet also would he not let them bear his burden. Thorin sighed and Balin let his arm go. Thorin sent the elder dwarf a brief glare. “How is it I can never win against you?”

“There is something to be said about age.” Balin’s lips played with a smirk. “Sometimes it gives you wisdom.”

“Sometimes.”

Balin looked to Thranduil and his nephews. “It would not be a great loss to use a little silver. Not all, mind you, that _would_ be foolish, but a bit would do no harm.”

“Why ask, if you have already decided your mind.”

“Because it is your company, Thorin, though your nephews may have seemed to have forgotten that. I know I asked much by saving Thranduil. I will not demand more.”

“Yet here you are.”

Balin sighed. “Yet here I am. A strange time we live in, no? Where a dwarf seeks to save an elf, at the risk of his own life.”

“Indeed.”

“But then…what’s an adventure without a little hardship?”

Thorin snorted. “Adventure?”

“What else would you call this?”

“Stupidity.”

“Perhaps,” Balin conceded. “Or maybe it is the beginnings of a new age.”

“They do seem to demand such demonstrations.”

“Then the silver…?” Balin dared to press, his eyes wary of insulting his king.

Thorin shook his head. “Do as you see fit. I said I shall not stand between those who think otherwise. I do not mean to recant on that promise.”

Balin’s eyes turned swiftly to pride and Thorin was hard pressed not to feel like a little boy meeting his father’s expectations. The elder dwarf had a way about him that seemed to beg others to be the best they could. Like it did now. Thorin huffed into his beard and grumbled, “Go before I change my mind.”

“You do our kind proud, Thorin,” Balin said, and then hurried back to Thranduil’s side.

Thorin hoped Balin’s words held true, but he somehow doubted his father or grandfather would ever think as such. Surely they would spit upon him. And the elves…Thorin still did not think they would welcome them any warmer. But, as Balin had said, this was a time for actions of honor. He must set aside these doubts, or his company would fall. To what, Thorin could not say, but he would do his utmost to never find out.


End file.
